Make Me Forget
by DwightK.Schrute
Summary: Sherlock is abducted by a psychopath during his most recent case, and all he wants to do is forget the things that happened to him. John helps. Non-con, JW/SH slash. Rated M for adult situations.
1. The Evil Doctor

**I wasn't originally going to post this, but I have nothing else to offer at the moment. This is part one of two parts, I'll try to have the latter half posted later once I have it finished.**

**Warning: Non-con. JW/SH later. Don't like, don't read.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or anything related to it.**

Sherlock awakens from his drug-induced slumber, one that for once wasn't of his own doing. He shields his eyes from the bright light overhead, as it sears into his eyes and sends him writhing in pain. The room is spinning, and he grips at the edges of the mattress he's lying on like it's a life boat being tossed amongst the waves.

There's a blob standing over him, and it's speaking to him. His ears and mouth feel like they've been stuffed with cotton, so there's not much he can do in response.

Then he feels a painful prick in his arm, and a rush of liquid into his veins. All of a sudden, things become startlingly clear. It's a doctor that's standing over his prone form, as the man's dressed in a suspiciously stained white lab coat. Whether or not he's certified to be wearing it is another matter entirely. His hair is grey, and slicked back from his face, and his piercing blue eyes appear large and bug-like behind his thick glasses.

"Ah, there he is," the "doctor" says, his voice suddenly booming loud in Sherlock's ears. "How is my patient doing? Better than the last ones, I hope."

Sherlock tries to ignore that comment, for his own sanity. He already knows that this man is the serial killer the Scotland Yard has been looking for, and that he's been murdering his victims in this very basement. The man is delusioned into thinking that everyone but himself is insane, and when he fails to "help" them, he cites them as a lost cause and kills them.

The detective is startled out of his thoughts when a hand reaches down and touches his forehead. The hand feels uncomfortably warm, and Holmes twists away as if he has been stabbed with a fire poker. He presses against the cobblestone wall that's beside him, sighing contentedly as the coolness sinks into his clothes and soothes his flushed skin.

"It appears the patient is running a rather high fever," the doctor mused to himself. "This added to his peculiar behavior suggests that his psychosis has taken over him. I begin to wonder if he is beyond help." Sherlock feels wary as a wicked smile lights upon the man's features. "I suppose, though, that it won't hurt to have a little fun with him before I dispose of him."

Sherlock feels his eyes go wide with terror. The man hastily lowers himself onto the mattress, so he's positioned over Holmes. He straddles the ailing man's waist and pins his wrists above his head, laughing gleefully as he does it. Sherlock tries to wrestle the smaller man off, but he's still weak from the sedatives that were injected into his system hours ago. He struggles as the doctor leans down and starts undoing the buttons on his white collared shirt, and growls as he feels hot hands run down his now bare torso.

The doctor tries to capture his lips with his own, but Sherlock turns his head to the side, and tries desperately to buck the man off of him as he feels those same lips on his neck. A hand suddenly snakes down between them, undoes the fly on Sherlock's trousers, and then slips inside, all while the detective is preoccupied with the mouth attached to his neck. But then he feels fingers curl around his member and give it a sharp tug, and he is made all too aware of what the doctor has planned.

Holmes thinks he's going to be sick as the hand begins pumping him, bringing his shaft quickly to attention. He tries to resist thrusting into the hand, but he can't control what his body does at this point. It's only made worse by the doctor grinding against him with his own rock-hard length, as if trying to remind him that this is only the beginning.

With a groan, Sherlock comes, feeling pangs of guilt and disgust as he does. The doctor pulls his hand out of Sherlock's pants, and wipes it off on his lab coat. He then grabs the waistband of the pants, but before he can yank them down, Sherlock is able to push him off with the last of his strength. The doctor falls against the stone floor and his head ricochets against it, effectively knocking the brittle man out.

He's too tired now to even sit up, but Sherlock manages to do up his pants and shirt with shaky fingers-he doesn't want to be found that way, especially not by Watson. And he knows he's going to be found, because he can hear the footsteps and shouts overhead as the police infiltrate the house. He finally allows himself to slip into unconsciousness, into a darkness that eases the tension from his body and blocks out the world around him.


	2. The Good Doctor

**Okay so I had intended this to be out much sooner but I got caught up in other things and completely lost my mojo, so it took until now for me to get this written up the way I want it. I think it's pretty hot, though. Also I didn't read it over so if there are any grammatical errors I apologize in advance.**

**Warning: JW/SH Slash**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, unfortunately.**

When Sherlock awakens again, he finds himself not in a dark, dank basement, but in his own bedroom. The curtains are shut, blocking out most of the afternoon light, but even in the dimness he sees his best friend and flatmate, John Watson, sitting in an armchair that had been pulled up beside the bed. He is reading, so has not yet noticed that his patient was awake, but it is obvious he is not enjoying his book, as his fingers are trembling and his face is set in an uncharacteristic scowl.

Sherlock can't say why, but he is scared. He is clearly safe in his own room, and with a trusted and skilled war veteran at his side, but he is not safe from his mind. He is haunted by thoughts of that sick, cruel little doctor, who is no doubt locked away by now.

"Holmes," a voice says suddenly. Sherlock tears himself from his thoughts and looks up to see that John is standing over him now, a look of relief evident on his face. "How are you feeling? Does anything hurt?"

The detective tries to reply, but his voice comes out as a mere rasp. His friend retrieves a glass of water from the bedside table, and motions for Holmes to sit up and take a drink. He complies, and once he has downed the glass he hands it back, not trusting his own strength at the moment to be able to reach over the side of the bed without dropping it.

"I'm quite alright, Watson," Sherlock finally replies, reclining in bed once more and bringing the covers back up about his shoulders—he has suddenly realized that his clothes have been removed, probably because they were in the way of allowing John to examine him for injuries.

"Really?" Watson asks lowly, obviously not believing him.

He reaches down suddenly and touches a finger to Sherlock's neck. The dark-haired man swats the hand away, knowing it is tracing the marks at his throat, left there by the insane doctor. He brings the covers up further.

"I know what happened in that basement, Holmes," Watson says, his voice barely above a whisper. "And I just want you to know that I'm here for you."

Feeling his eyes prick with tears, Sherlock clenches his jaw and then rolls onto his side, turning his back on the good doctor. "I'm fine now, Watson," he says detachedly. "You can leave."

"You know I'm not going to do that."

Sherlock feels the other side of the bed dip beneath the other man's weight as he takes a seat, and then sits back against the headboard. Watson crosses his legs and then continues reading, ignoring the glare Sherlock throws over his shoulder.

They stay this way for several minutes, John casually reading his book, merely content to listen to the sounds of his friend breathing, while Sherlock is tucked away beneath the covers, his eyes beginning to droop again. The drugs had obviously done a number on his system, but after he awakes in a few hours he probably won't be able to sleep again for days.

As the dark-haired man starts to fall asleep, John kicks off his shoes, and before Sherlock can protest, John has tucked his book away and slipped beneath the covers, curling around his fetal-positioned companion in a warm embrace.

"You're so damn stubborn," Watson murmurs tiredly into the crook of Sherlock's neck.

The detective tries to ignore the hot lips against his skin, plastering warm kisses down his neck. John clearly thinks the other is asleep, because such advances on a man, and an ill one at that, are most unbecoming.

Sherlock feels an arm snake over his waist to grab him and roll him over, so John's fully clothed body can press more satisfyingly against his naked one. With shaking fingers, Sherlock struggles to unbotton the waistcoast, earning a strangled gasp from Watson, who had not suspected him to still be awake.

Hands grip Sherlock's wrists and tug them away. Blue eyes meet dark ones, hesitant meeting desperate and ready.

"I don't think we should do this," John says breathily. "Not now."

"Please," Sherlock whispers. "Make me forget."

John pauses, averting his eyes, and the shorter man takes advantage of the moment, crushing his lips against John's in a deep, delicious kiss. The doctor moans into his mouth, and starts stripping his clothes off as Sherlock sucks at his neck fervently.

His clothes are finally gone, pitched over the side of the bed, and John rolls them over so he is postioned over the brunette. He looks down into those large, brown eyes, and is lost for a moment in their utter sincerity. He doesn't want to end it, the brief stretch in time before they consummate their love that has laid dormant for years, before they admit feelings that were never meant to be admitted.

But then Sherlock's hand reaches down and slips around his member, and that warmth in his eyes is erased and replaced by desire. He guides John to his entrance, and his eyes are begging. John enters him slowly, softly, eliciting quiet gasps and moans from the man beneath him. The pleasure largely overrides the pain, and after being fully inside, John pulls out and drives back in quickly, earning a loud, throaty shout from his partner.

Before long John is moving in and out, gripping at Sherlock's sides until his fingers are digging in and no doubt leaving ten perfect little bruises. Sherlock's vocalizations grow more frequent and much louder until he's practically screaming, and John doesn't know whether or not to smother him so Mrs. Hudson doesn't hear, or make him scream even more.

"I can't-" John manages breathlessly, his pace erratic and not at all matching Sherlock's anymore, but neither of them cared.

"It doesn't-" Sherlock is interrupted by a loud moan that tears unexpectedly from his throat. "Just come already, John!"

John sees white-hot stars swim across his vision, and at the same time notices Sherlock's eyes roll back in his head in a manner that is for once not alarming. After a long, mind-blowing moment, John falls on top of Sherlock, their sweaty bodies sliding against each other in a hot mess. He pulls himself out of the detective, drawing out one last sweet moan from his lover, and then rolls off onto his back so they are lying side by side, both trying to catch their breath.

"That was-" John dabs at his forehead with a kerchief he had retrieved from the pocket of his waistcoat.

"-monumental, historic, unforgettable," Sherlock finished for him.

"Yes," John added. "Quite all that."

There was a breadth of silence, and then Sherlock moved smoothly over, lifting up John's arm and putting it around his shoulders.

"Thank you," he mumbled sleepily, resting his head on the other's chest.

"Your welcome," John replied just as exhaustedly, pressing a kiss against Holmes' forehead before drifting off to sleep.


End file.
